(ashes, ashes) we all fall down
by lydiamartins
Summary: book!verse, au; everybody's got a life that nobody knows about it, she tells herself, because it's so damn true that it hurts - hanna marin, relearning reality ; for coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level five, part three!


**summary:** book!verse, au; _Everybody's got a life that nobody knows about it, _she tells herself, because it's so damn true that it hurts - hanna marin, relearning reality ; for coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level five, part three!

**notes — **this is more of a character study drabble than an actual story bc i feel as though i'm going to do character studies for the level five challenge; also, i know that i've used a similar name for a title before but i listened to this song and i really think that it fits hanna's personality really well; hope you guys like this, c:

**(ashes, ashes) we all fall down**  
hanna marins

.

She's seven years old when her life starts failing.

It's when her father stands up at the dinner table one day, and tells Hanna to leave - her mother and him engage one another in a heated discussion wherein her father ends up yelling for hours, and her mother sits silently, taking the abuse, before walking over to the counter, taking out the keys and a few suitcases - as though she was already packing for days, knowing that leaving would be the only option left - and leaves down the driveway, taking the blue car with her; Hanna's father sits down on the couch, and presses his forehead and frown lines.

Sitting upon the staircase, Hanna thinks that it's her fault - it always is going to be her fault, from the beginning of everything.

.

The stepbrother from another failed marriage visits once.

Her father always says, _it's the spouse that you divorce, not the children, _and even though the two of them had barely been married for five months (perhaps it was seven, but Hanna had lost hope over the years), and she nods slowly, walking towards the ringing doorbell, and opening the door with a fake smile on her face. Wesley strides in, a broad smile on his face, as though nothing in the world is wrong. _Hanna, _he states calmly, _you look horrible._

_Wesley, _she retorts, _I didn't think that you could look worse than before, but you've proved me wrong, yet again! _She continues, fake sympathy dripping from her sugar-coated voice, except for once, she doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to end up with another conversation of not so witty banter, fighting over everything from the television show to positions in the dinner table; Hanna just wants one of those happy family dinners that lasts for more than five minutes, where her father doesn't leave the dinner table in five minutes and Wesley doesn't hole himself up in his room, and where she doesn't have to end up eating dinner, alone, again, because that's when everything goes wrong; Hanna blinks, scrutinizing the boy in front of her, thinking that he hadn't grown much taller - his head had grown bigger, perhaps. She remembers him, of course; after all, Wesley was the one that had ruined her life -

(She sees her father once, bringing home another girl; Hanna buries her face in a container of cold sorbet ice cream, which suddenly loses its value and taste, wrapping herself between the cotton blankets that her mother had made, once upon a time, and the holes in the socks on her feet are rolled up, leaving her exposed to the bitter cold; she shovels the ice cream into her face, because food is supposed to numb everything, make all the problems, go away, make everything better, but she feels sick to her stomach, and for a while, nothing will make her feel better.

Her father brings home another woman for another day - the two of them creep upstairs, clattering dishes and an old keychain from her father's keys ends up on the kitchen table, along with a spilled glass of orange juice; he never comes home for dinner anymore, and if he does, Hanna goes out. It's better to avoid the situation entirely, she thinks to herself. Sometimes, Hanna sits upon a swingset at an abandoned, broken down playground, and thinks about what would happen if life was different, if her life was better - but then again, it wouldn't be her life it was any better.

Hanna smooths down her jacket, noticing the way that her stomach bunches up and the way that her hands turn into fists, fat creases forming beneath her chin - rubber bands from the orthodontist push her lower chin forward, but it's still not enough to be perfect - after all, what is? The stars up in the sky are celestial; she sits on the roof of the house, brushing off the dust and thinking about what would happen if her mother was still alive. There wouldn't be this hole in her heart that nobody could fill - maybe, Ali and the rest of the other girls, but mostly Ali, would stop making accidental comments about what they're making for their mothers for Mother's Day, and maybe, she could have a happily ever after.

She's aware that it's unhealthy to pretend as though her life is in the movies - completely mental, everybody always says - but it's possible, Hanna thinks to herself. Ali acts as though everybody in the world likes her (and, honestly, she can't think of a single person who doesn't adore and completely worship Rosewood Day's current alpha), and Hanna can't imagine living life like that, all the sacrifices that one would have to make. She reminds herself that she's lucky enough to be included in the group - there's a knock on the front door, and Hanna quickly dumps the empty pan into the garbage can - there's a certain memory that strikes out to herself when somebody finds out about her dirty little secret, that's not so much little, not anymore; she walks to the front door, sucking in her stomach, never quite feeling her ribs, and pulls herself together at the arrival of Wesley. _About time you showed up, _she mutters, walking in the other direction - he follows, as expected, _Mom's upstairs with some other guy. They were kissing last night, under the staircase - you think that they love each other?_

Wesley lets out a snort, and munches on one of the snickerdoodle cookies, fresh out of the oven - it masks the scent of unfamiliar cologne from another of her mother's visitors, Hanna likes to think. _You're so stupid, Han._

_But, _she stares at him with concern, _I thought that people kiss when they love each other - isn't that how it's always supposed to be? _Her stepbrother laughs, and Hanna gets the feeling it's not because he finds something funny.

_Not in this world,_ he mutters, and Hanna thinks for such a tall person, Wesley has never looked so small.

.

Her pale hand is clutching the side off the escalator - Hanna's blond hair is finally thick enough to ensconce her frame, curled into perfect ringlets, with the stolen pearly white sunglasses resting upon her head as though they belong there; she stares emptily onto the upper floor, and thinks that popularity isn't all that people think it to be, yet she loves it all the same. She loves being Hanna Marin, that type of girl that can get away with stealing sunglasses because guys are too busy staring at her, and the way that everybody looks at her, in a mixture of awe and envy, when she walks down the hallways of Rosewood Day, carrying down Ali's legacy, she thinks for herself - that was the reason, in the first place, but she's not sure why she's doing it anymore.

Hanna had done everything for Ali - change her eating habits to fall into sweet porcelain, the only object that could give her temporarily give her relief, or maybe a closet full of new clothes and a wallet full of credit cards - because she had believed that it would give her true happiness, something along the lines of what Ali was able to grasp within only a few days of living in Roseville (or maybe, the happiness, along with everything Ali had told her, and the rest of the girls was fake, a complete lie).

Her mother comes home one day - on a Sunday, driving up with a completely different car, and knocks open the door; there's a man behind her, Detective Wilden, Hanna thinks to herself from her position on the sofa, leaning over the coffee table to examine the familiar faces of the intruders, who had been on the case to find Ali; the two of them brush lips against one another - her mother's hands lead him upstairs, and she sits on the sofa, her mind going numb as chips and bean dip are swallowed down, falling onto her thighs, and there's no time of release before the food ends up regurgitated on the satin, stains an everlasting reminder.

_Hey, Spence, do you think that I could come over? _She calls up Spencer - somebody who's supposed to be a true friend, somebody who's supposed to at least pretend to understand her situation (but then again, when were the Hastings not perfect). _It's just that . . . my mom came back from Cali and dad's not going to be home for another few hours, and she's with Detective Wilden, and I just need to get away from it, y'know? _

There's silence on the other end, for what feels to be a few minutes; Spencer replies, _Uh, hey, Hanna - I'm really sorry about that, just, uh . . . I have some family over so I don't think that I can meet up with you, I'm really sorry though; can we meet up tomorrow —_

Suddenly, there's a crash of glass, and the distinctive voice of Aria exclaim, _Emily, what are you doing with that vase? _and Hanna takes a deep breath, before finishing up the conversation. _Well, Spencer, _her voice is much colder this time, and for a minute, she feels betrayed, _I hope that enjoy spending time with your new family. _There's some indistinct syllables on the other line, perhaps a muffled apology, but for a moment, Hanna can't really think about anything; she's sort of tired of thinking that life is going to get better, and falls into warm layers of blankets, and tells herself, _everything will be fine in the morning. _

In the morning, she finds herself sitting at the kitchen table, humming a simple tune and doing the dishes - they're not things that the new Hanna Marin would ever dream of doing, but she just needs to do something, anything, to get her mind of the betrayal, because everybody's been seeming to betray her lately. Her father came home the previous night and looked at Hanna as though she was vermin, a complete and utter mistake, and her biological mother fought for custody - Hanna isn't quite sure why there's this custody battle going on when all of them know the truth, that her mother's just going to leave her in the house and tell her to clean up the mess, just another distraction, perhaps; Hanna bores holes into the refrigerator, and closes it quickly, sliding against the cold metal - her phone rings, all of a sudden, perhaps Spencer with an apology.

She picks up the phone; then, there's a pause upstairs - the clattering of yet another vase from the second floor; Hanna closes the phone, a quick snap, and finds her way towards the pantry. She's standing in front of the toilet in a public stall, hours later - being in public is always dangerous, but there's enough time before the school bell rings and an unsuspecting gaggle of girls walk through the doors (perhaps, her so called reliable friends), but she's staring at her chin, and the toilet clarifies itself in the reflection of the mirror. Hanna's a little too tired to kick the stall closed; eventually, she ends up in front of the toilet, sweat mopped on her forehead as her hair sticks together, panting. _Old habits die hard, _she thinks to herself, laughing a little. Ali used to say things like that.

.

_Everybody's got a life that nobody knows about it, _she tells herself, because it's so damn true that it hurts.

Days later, she stares down at her mutilated fingers; cuts and bruises line up the edges, exposing feeble, white skin that turns a light pink color when exposed to the light, and she hides herself in the darkness, painting over the mistakes with chemicals, trying to forget everything that had happened, because honestly, forgetting everything could have made her life much easier. Yet, it wasn't as though her life had been picture-perfect before A's arrival, and the deaths, and the secret text messages in the middle of the night - her life had never been _perfect._

The refrigerator beeps - something along the lines of somebody needing to refill the filter - and Hanna finds herself drawn towards the source of food, a magnetic pull, entranced by the small cake that Detective Wilden had bought for her mother, for their two week anniversary in the night, and she thinks that nobody would miss it. She tells herself to stop, that what she's doing, it's not right - but then, she remembers everything her mother had told her (_stop making mistakes that I'm going to have fix for you) _or the way that her friends have their own family together, and that she's always excluded from all of their secrets - _to protect her, _Aria always lies.

Hanna heaves up the stairs, one-two-three; opens the door. She tips to the side and rolls her backpack from her shoulder onto the hardwood flooring, yet the weight never wavers— she stumbles to her bed, collapses onto the strawberry scented covers - apparently, they're supposed to symbolize love and happiness, everything that's meant to be right in this world - and feels empty; her body morphs around the damp pillows, soaked with tears, and unfinished assignments that only remind her that there's nothing left for her but a way out of Roseville, and it's a responsibility that Hanna's never felt (people used to take her, and now she takes care of herself), and she takes the world from her shoulders and curls herself around it. The rain falls with her sobbing, a sharp, piercing gust of wind as Hanna gasps for breath, and the rain falls until the sun breaks through the stormy clouds and picks up the pieces the rain left behind, drying puddles and curled hair and rosy cheeks.

There isn't a rainbow, though— there never is.

**notes |** hannacentric drabble — for coppertone wars' twelve days of christmas challenge, level five, part three! (hanna's part), c: please leave a review?


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